


Don't Dig in the Past

by knightcommanderalenko



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Prompt Fill, Smut, well the fluff is there eventually
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-30
Updated: 2014-08-30
Packaged: 2018-02-15 09:33:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2224128
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightcommanderalenko/pseuds/knightcommanderalenko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Demaria and her commander had a minor disagreement. She believes that she needs to know about his life prior to Kirkwall, while he believes that the past should stay in the past. How do they sort their differences? Sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Dig in the Past

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to the amazing tanksfromvenus for the prompt, and for inquisitorskeyblade for reviewing it :)
> 
> You can send me a prompt over at my tumblr (which is of the same username), if you're ever so inclined

_Don’t dig in the past_. That’s what Cullen had told her. When she’d first asked about him, it’d been out of genuine interest. She knew next to nothing about the man, other that he was the ex-Knight Captain of Kirkwall, and that he knew Varric. He hadn’t reacted well; he’d all but retreated behind his lion helmet – an impassable wall between them that she detested with a passion.

Demaria hadn’t meant it to upset him. How could she if she didn’t know what his response was to be. It was just her luck that the one person she wanted to know more about, wanted to keep his past concealed. Truth be told, his response had infuriated her. The Inquisitor deserved to know more about her advisors and companions, didn’t she?

Demaria sat on her destrier, fuming. The day had started out with lovely weather; brilliant sunshine and a light breeze, but like her mood, it too had changed. The wind had picked up, whistling through the trees, bringing with it a thick fog from the mountains. She could see about three feet in front of the nose of her horse, and it made her even more concerned.

It had been about two hours since the incident, and there had been a tense silence amongst the group, that even Varric dared not break. Cullen sat on his own horse a few paces behind. He’d taken off the helm but still sat in a stony silence, while Varric and the Iron Bull followed, whispering amongst themselves. Not knowing why Cullen had shut her out was the worst. She felt selfish at wanting to know everything about him; why he was so rigidly professional; what made him laugh in the dead of night; what he’d feel like under his…

_No,_ she thought. She wouldn’t go there. But Maker, did she want to.

Thankfully they weren’t too far from their destination, so she couldn’t focus on those thoughts for long. The road wasn’t well maintained, and it did nothing for her already low mood. There were pot-holes and jutting-out cobblestones, tufts of weeds and puddles of unknown depth.

The sky was still dark and foggy when the camp came into view. Her scouts had ventured into this region of Orlais before the main party, and they had set up lanterns, tents and cooking pots, and a roughly constructed wall around the perimeter.

The Inquisitor dismounted her horse and led him to the makeshift stable. Her father had instilled in her a mantra to tend for her own animals; how could she expect Alcaeus to take her into battle if she didn’t feed him and tend to him first?

The stable was more like a fenced off patch of grass with a roof, but under the current circumstances, it would have to do. One of the stable-hands saw her approach with the large horse and nearly fell over himself opening the gate. Despite her mood, Demaria cracked a smile.

“I’m sorry, mi’lady,” stammered the stable-hand. He looked very nervous to be in her presence, like she was a demon planning to bite off his head.

“You’ve done nothing wrong…?”

“Avan, mi’lady,” he replied with a shy smile.

“Thank you for opening the gate, Avan.” Demaria would do her best to remember his name, although it was unlikely.

She led Alcaeus through the gate and into the fenced of enclosure. He was the only one in this particular area, the other horses were usually kept further in the camp. Originally, Alcaeus had been housed with them until his temper had flared over the other male horses and he’d been separated. That was the problem with stallions.

When she’d got him, her father had advised that she geld him, to make him more susceptible to her commands. She’d ignored her father completely.

Alcaeus was one of the finest destriers that she’d seen. He was a magnificent horse; at sixteen hands high, he was a dark wall of war-strengthened muscle with intelligent brown eyes. He’d born her through many battles, and double the amount of parades.

“You’re my most treasured gift,” the Inquisitor said, patting his large nose.

“He was a gift?” questioned a low voice from behind her. Demaria spun around and became face-to-face with Cullen. She shifted her previously easy stance to a more rigid one; back straight and arms crossed tight across her breast-plate.

She wasn’t feeling too kindly towards him, and in her mind, it was for good reason. “Yes,” she replied with a barely restrained scowl. “From my father.”

The Inquisitor left Alcaeus in the enclosure and returned through the gate, Cullen trailing behind her. She didn’t stop walking until she’d reached her tent; the largest and most central in the camp. Its entrance was marked by two black and red banners blazoned with the heraldry of the Inquisition. The guards by the flap gave her a well-practiced salute with the hails of “Inquisitor” and “Ser Cullen,” before opening the hole wide enough to walk through. She gave them a friendly nod, before ushering Cullen inside.

It was cozy inside the tent, but not too lavish. When she’d travelled with her father, her tent had been ridiculous; you could have fit about five large beds inside and still have room for a couple of desks. This one was different; Demaria was a military leader, not the teenage daughter of a noble man, accustomed to the finer things in life. Accordingly, it was also draped with the sigil of the Inquisition, and had adopted the same colour scheme. She sat down on one of the seats, still armoured, and looked at Cullen with the same stony expression as before.

Cullen had taken off his armour, and was standing in the cool air in a light shirt and breeches. He must have been quite cold outside in the breeze. It occurred to Demaria that she’d never seen him that informal before. If she were being completely honest, he looked rather awkward.

Cullen scratched the back of his neck. “Inquisitor, I…” He moved the hand at the back of his neck to his hairline. As angry as she was, Demaria was momentarily distracted by how perfect it looked. How it remained unspoiled under the lion helmet was a mystery for the ages.

“I came to apologise for any offence I may have caused you today,” he finished in a rush. He apparently wasn’t accustomed to giving serious apologies, or was at least out of practice.

Demaria raised an eyebrow. “What gave you the impression I was unhappy with you, Ser Cullen?”

They weren’t the closest of friends, not without a lack of trying on Demaria’s part, mind you, but even he seemed to recognise the blatant sarcasm. She wouldn’t have been surprised if it physically dripped from her mouth.

He opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off. “All I wanted to know was about you,” she said abruptly. Demaria waved off his attempts at some sort of explanation with a gloved hand. “It wasn’t your response that offended me, Advisor, but rather your lack of one.”

Cullen had the audacity to look somewhat incensed. The Inquisitor took it about as well as one could expect, and continued to speak, getting ever more aggressive.

“Had you told me that you’d rather not talk about it, then I would have understood. Instead, you refused to respond.”

Still sitting in her seat, the Inquisitor reached over for a jug of water and poured herself a glass. Remembering her noble upbringing and what was left of her manners, she offered him one. A pointed frown, he refused. Readjusting herself, she took a sip, and continued. “So yes, I am angry with you, Advisor, but I will be more professional come morning.” With a wave of her gloved hand, she dismissed him. Naturally, she expected him to take that as his cue to leave. Therefore, she was a little surprised when he didn’t and strode forward. Demaria looked up to see him towering over her. He placed his hands on the sides of the chair, effectively pinning her in place.

“I’m sorry, Inquisitor, that you feel so angry,” he replied with a level of ire that matched her own. He was beyond angry; Demaria had never seen him lose this much control before, and was honestly interested to see where it would take him. He was looming over her to the degree that her seated eyes where just below his own. They were closer than they’d ever been, and from where she was sitting, it wasn’t a bad view.  

He must have realised the same thing, looking down at her, because the next thing she knew, he had grabbed her and pulled her up into a kiss. It was more passionate than she was anticipating, but she welcomed it, none the less. One hand was firm in her hair, scrunching it around his fingers, while other was on her armoured waist.

He transferred his anger into the kiss, and the Inquisitor responded in kind. She wasn’t exactly the happiest person either. With his hands otherwise occupied, she pulled him towards her, and not with much care. She hoped that he had a breastplate shaped bruise on his chest in the morning; it would serve the bastard right.

His lips were slightly chapped from spending the majority of the day outside, but they were still soft and pliant. The scar running through his lips added a second layer of texture, one that she wasn’t expecting. It was smooth where it shouldn’t be, and it contrasted to the light stubble on his cheeks and chin.

Demaria pulled away slightly, leaving him two shades breathless and confused. He raised a questioning eyebrow, all traces of anger gone.

“I’m in armour, Cullen,” she pointed out, rapping her breast plate with her knuckles. Understanding dawned across his handsome features, and he gave her a devilish smirk; a look she didn’t think the usually uptight military commander was capable of.

“Well, we’ll have to fix that, won’t we?”

Demaria replicated his smile to the best of her abilities, but fell short due to the butterflies in her stomach. She had not once in a million years expected that she would be undressing in front of, let alone about to sleep with, the most handsome man she’d ever seen. It was cause for mild concern.

As she loosened the fifty-three thousand buckles holding her breastplate in place, she remembered something. “Cullen, didn’t you have to take vows?”

For once, a reminder of his past didn’t trouble him, and he smiled up from his position on the ground. His hands kept up their steady pace undoing the buckles on her greaves while he replied.

“Vows: yes. Vows of celibacy: no. Those were only for the sworn brothers and sisters of the Chantry.”

The Inquisitor was relieved; she wouldn’t wanted him to forsake any sort of vows for her. She wasn’t a particularly strong believer in the Maker, but even that exceeded her boundaries.

The last of the buckles slipped open, and her breast plate fell to the carpeted floor with a clang. Her greaves were long gone, and Cullen had moved to her gauntlets. She stretched one arm out for him to access, and used the other to begin to peel off her chainmail under-armour. It was times like these, she thought, that so many layers of protection was a bad thing.

Once both gauntlets were off and so too was the chainmail, she stood in her smalls in the tent. Cullen looked like he’d forgotten how to breathe. He stood in the middle of the room, simply staring at her. He looked enraptured.

She started giggling at his expression, and when he looked up, it turned into full blown laughter. Cullen wasn’t exactly sure what it was directed at, but chuckled along, his hazel eyes crinkling at the corners.

Demaria settled before him, and took the opportunity to really look at him. Even with his clothes still on, he was impressive. His shoulders were wide, arms tones and waist small; he was like one of the drawings in the illustrated version of ‘The Art of Passionate Love’ by Brother Capria. Not that’d she’d ever read it, of course. Then again, it wasn’t exactly made for reading… so she’d heard.

She moved towards him and placed her palms on his chest. He stilled and his hazel gaze met her own. When he eventually stopped laughing, he began to fidget, and chew on his bottom lip. He was nervous, she realised.

“Are you sure about this, Cullen?” she asked. She wouldn’t push him into something that he wasn’t ready for.

He thought for a second before nodding his head. “Yes.”

The Inquisitor smiled and slid her hands up his still-clothed chest. She wrapped her arms around his neck, drawing them closer. He grabbed her waist, and pulled her in for another kiss. It was just as passionate as the last, but slower, more experimental. She took her time getting to know the feeling and taste of his mouth on hers. Just as before, the scar added an interesting contrast to his chapped lips. The scar was smoother than the rest, and she wondered, like the rest of his past, if he would rather it not exist. While she was otherwise occupied, Cullen moved slightly, causing him to bash his nose into hers.

He pulled back, apologising profusely.

“Cullen, I’m ok,” she said in a soothing tone. To prove the point that she wasn’t hurt, she grabbed his hand, and tugged him over to the bedroll. It was large, an easy fit for two adults, and she’d never been so thankful.

Demaria sat down and pulled him down with her. Cullen landed quite ungracefully, and she had to crack a smile.

He sat up, his usually perfect hair slightly ruffled. He glanced at her, and seeing her smile at him, began to take off his shirt. Demaria’s eyes widened further at every inch of skin was revealed. He was more than she was expecting; his muscles had been perfectly sculpted from years of martial service, and candles gave him a golden glow. There were scars riddled across his torso, showing many close calls with archers and other swordsmen. She couldn’t complain as her own body was much the same. It showed their talent, she thought. They had survived.

Once his shirt was fully off, Demaria crawled over. She gave Cullen a slight smile of encouragement, and reached out to touch him. As she was expecting before, his skin was slightly chilled; he had goosebumps and the faint hairs on his arms and chest stood up. His eyes however, were not cold; they held a heat within them that, in turn, warmed her to the core.

He placed one large palm on her cheek. Looking up from under her lashes, she turned slightly to kiss it. He guided her up for another kiss. While his eyes were closed, she took the opportunity to untie her breast-band. She flung it somewhere to the right, probably never to be seen again.

As observant as he was in battle, Cullen was decidedly unobservant in other areas of life. She smiled into the kiss, relishing in her secret.

When their chests touched, Demaria heard Cullen inhale. He hadn’t expected her to be practically naked already, and his eyes flew open. The Inquisitor watched as her lover looked down, his cheeks going redder than before.  He probably would appreciated it, but Demaria thought that he was the most adorable man she’d ever met. One thing Varric had told her about him was the time in Kirkwall where he couldn’t say ‘prostitute;’ Cullen had gone red and called them “young ladies” instead. He was one of the most powerful men in the city, reduced to a blushing teenage farm boy over a word.

He looked back up to her, and placed his hands around her waist. She sighed, and with her own, moved them to her breasts. He seemed to be a permanent shade of red; Demaria had assumed that he wasn’t that experienced with women, but she didn’t think he’d be a virgin. Women-kind had been missing out.

While he was preoccupied with her chest, she decided to amuse herself with his. He observation before was correct; it was wide, toned and all shades of nice to play with. Her hands skimmed over his pecs, before trailing down the middle to rest just above the waistline of his pants. She glared down at the offending garments. They needed to go.

Demaria rose from the bedroll in a relatively graceful fashion. Cullen’s protest died in his throat when she dropped her smallclothes on the floor, and kicked them away. She grabbed him by the elbows and lifted him up. Pulling him close meant that she got to see the way his skin jumped at her touch; how he reacted when her callused fingertips roamed his chest. She drew imaginary designs over his pecs, flicking his nipples on the way, before her fingers finally stilling on the skin above his pants.

“Can I try something?” she asked, toying with the knot at his hips.

“Anything, love,” he replied, finally looking at ease with the naked woman in front of him.

The Inquisitor bit her lip, before pulling at the laces. They parted with ease, allowing her to push his pants down to the ground. Demaria gently pushed the now naked man backward until he walked into a chair. He fell back onto it with a slight huff, and watched with interest as she knelt down and crawled over to him. Cullen felt his mouth go dry. The Inquisitor, the woman who he’d dreamt about for months, was on her knees in front of him and giving him the most intense look he’d ever received.

Demaria gave him a wicked smile and placed both hands on his thighs. She slowly moved them up, her fingertips leaving goosebumps in their wake. When they reached his groin, Cullen groaned. Her wicked wicked fingers drew circles on his upper thighs, mere centimetres away from where he wanted them most. She hadn’t even properly touched his cock and he was already hard. Demaria smirked, finally taking pity on the poor man. She gave his cock a few experimental pumps before bending down, drawing one languid lick from base to tip. Cullen moaned and she felt him place one large hand in her hair. Demaria hummed around him. He was larger than she was expecting, but it was no trouble. Cullen’s fingers wrapped in her hair as she pulled back slightly.

As her talented tongue swirled around his cock, Cullen had a moment of slight introspection. He came to the conclusion that he wasn’t sure he wanted to know where she learned to do it. Demaria wasn’t a virgin, her confidence had proven that, but… as good as she was making him feel, his heart clenched at the thought of her doing this to someone else.

Cullen’s thoughts were short lived when she began to use her hands. One she placed where her mouth couldn’t reach, and the other disappeared into the juncture of her thighs. She hummed around his cock as she began to play with her clit. She felt a warmth pool in her lower abdomen as she toyed with her wet folds. Cullen let out a harsh breath and pulled on her hair. Demaria winced slightly, but continued, taking it as a good sign. She was nearly ready, and by all accounts, so was he.

He dislodged his hands from her brown tresses and pulled her off his cock. Demaria looked up, concerned that she’d misjudged and had done something he didn’t like. He grabbed her head and claimed her mouth for another kiss. Cullen could taste himself on her lips, and he wasn’t at all disgusted by it as he thought he should have been.

Demaria smiled into the kiss as his hands roamed over her body. It was Cullen’s turn to direct her, and he pushed her back to the bedroll. He pushed her onto her back, and began to kiss over her jaw. She pulled him close, and raked her nails down his back when he lightly bit the juncture between her neck and shoulder. He soothed the bite with a kiss, and continued his journey down.

As his one large hand skimmed over her smooth belly, the other toyed with a nipple. Demaria’s back arched off the bedroll in reflex, and Cullen chuckled.

“So you like that, do you?” he asked, his voice slightly muffled by his position at her neck. The Inquisitor whimpered in response. Through their slow undressing and her worship of his cock, she was already quite aroused.  

Demaria’s whimpers turned into breathy moans when Cullen’s mouth attached to her neglected breast.

“Cullen,” she breathed. She felt him leave her breast and look up.

“Hmmm?”

Demaria met his hazel gaze with her green, and in the most forceful voice she could muster, said: “If you don’t fuck me right now, Advisor, I’ll make you regret the day you joined the Inquisition.”

He let out another chuckle, and sat upright. The blushing ex-Templar from before had been replaced with a self-assured man. He looked a right state - his blond hair was rumpled, sticking up at odd angles, and his lips were slightly swollen. Demaria had never seen a more appealing sight in her life.

Cullen positioned himself between her legs, and guided himself towards her core. He gave her a questioning look, and she responded by drawing her legs around his waist, locking him in place. His first thrust was shallow, barely making the entrance. The nervous look had returned, and Demaria squeezed her legs, forcing him to move. The subsequent thrust was a lot deeper, and she moaned around him. Cullen took at as a good sign, and began to move.

Cullen felt so good inside of her. His hips snapped against hers in slow, yet forceful movements, each one making her breasts bounce. Demaria moaned shamelessly beneath him. A man hadn’t made her feel this good in a long time.

As he picked up the pace, she didn’t think that he was going to last much longer. His hazel eyes were screwed shut and his shoulder muscles were tense. If she listened closely, she could hear him mumbling something. She stifled a small laugh when she realised it was a section of the Chant of Light; the Canticle of Transfigurations, if she was not mistaken. It seemed so sacrilegious to hear it while being fucked into a bed roll. She didn’t know whether to be flattered or not.

All thoughts screamed to a halt when he changed angles. He’d arched his back, causing him to reach a new spot inside of her. She felt so full. Maker knows what his cock would feel like in other positions, but for now, Cullen nailing her from above was working marvellously. Demaria felt the pressure build in her lower abdomen. He’d slowed his thrusts to try and feign off his own completion, and all it was doing was torturing her. She trembled underneath him, and tried to squeeze her hand between their bodies. Before she could reach her clit and put an end to her delicious torment, he stopped her.

“Let me,” he said, eyes dark and slightly unfocused. Demaria guided his hand down her body, and applied the right amount of pressure to her clit. Cullen’s thrusts had nearly stopped; he was applying all of his immense willpower to not come before her. Demaria’s back arched off the bedroll when Cullen lightly rubbed her nub. She had reached the point where her moans had turned to whimpers, and any small amount of friction would surely take her over the edge. He was a lot more attentive to her needs than she was anticipating, and it didn’t take long for her to fall apart.

The fluttering of her walls around his nearly immobile cock sent all the blood he had left rushing to his groin. With all of his willpower gone, he pulled out of her before plunging back to the hilt. Demaria rolled her hips with the little energy she had left, coaxing his release.

With a guttural moan, Cullen finished inside her. He fell forward into his lover’s arms, and although he was heavy, Demaria found that she didn’t mind at all. They lay like that for a while, trying to remember how to talk. Hell, at that point, she thought that even remembering how to breathe was an issue.

When they had both recovered, Cullen’s still husky voice rose from the darkness. “That wasn’t how I planned our first night together going, at all.”

Demaria pushed him off her and sat up, peering incredulously at him.

“You’d thought about this before?” she asked, dark eyebrows ascending into her hairline.

He chuckled, rolling onto his back. “You’re a beautiful woman, my lady, how could I not?”


End file.
